


say what you mean

by bigdrool



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdrool/pseuds/bigdrool
Summary: Claude is like, dropping hints that he wants to be more than friends with benefits.(AKA he makes the unilateral decision to date Sylvain and ends up victim to his own machinations.)
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 215





	say what you mean

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fic in *checks watch* 12 years so let's see how this goes

When Sylvain walks into his apartment, he's not entirely surprised to see that it's not empty despite the fact that he lives alone. He has exactly three keys aside from his own in circulation: one copy given to Felix, which Felix claims he's thrown out but Sylvain knows he keeps in his doorway next to his mail key; one copy for Ingrid, who actually puts the key to good use if only because Sylvain often asks her to check in on his dog when he's working late; and one copy for his mother, which is even less likely to see the light of day than Felix's copy.

His current visitor however, is none of the abovementioned keyholders, and Sylvain should probably find that concerning if not for the fact that Claude is currently clad in a soft pair of sweatpants that bely nothing underneath, and a sleeveless shirt that begs Sylvain to ogle his toned arms.

Normally Cherry—his chubby Pomeranian—would be yipping at his heels for dinner, but he can see her in the kitchen already tackling her food with her usual ferocity, and for some reason the sight warms him more than it usually does.

"Should I be worried that you were able to get into my apartment without a key?" he asks, despite knowing there is a high probability of not getting a straight answer.

Or any answer at all, he supposes, when Claude does little more than greet him with a smile over the glass of water he's helping himself to, leaning casually against the island separating Sylvain's kitchen from his living space.

The motion draws Sylvain's attention to the fact that Claude appears to have already worked up a sweat, and that, if nothing else, spurs Sylvain to shed his post-work grogginess, mind suddenly racing with all the activities that Claude could have occupied himself with while waiting.

He is, without a doubt, going to get an answer for that question out of Claude eventually because treat for the eyes or not, he feels like he should be aware of any gaps in the security of his home. But for now, he wastes no time in dropping his bag to the floor so that he can crowd Claude against the counter with a sly smile, anticipation beginning to smoulder in his gut.

"Okay, how about if I ask why you snuck into my apartment? Will that get me an answer?" Though it's obvious that he's less invested in this line of questioning, one hand already settling on Claude's hip, pressing under the hem of his shirt so that his thumb that stroke over the soft skin there.

And if Sylvain had thought he had the rest of his evening figured out, his plans are rapidly thrown for a loop when Claude finally replies, "I dropped by to help out with your bathroom cabinet. Didn't you get my text?"

There's a short moment of silence that follows where Sylvain struggles to switch gears from horny to confused, which Claude observes with far too much relish as he delicately removes Sylvain's hands from his sides, and slides out from between him and the counter so that he's no longer trapped.

When Sylvain eventually fixes him with a disbelieving look, he only laughs.

"You definitely didn't send me a text." Sylvain doesn't even look at his phone to confirm what he already knows to be a lie, trying to figure out what game Claude has chosen for them to play tonight.

For his part, Claude doesn't show the slightest bit of remorse for his "forgetfulness", shrugging as he turns away and toward the bathroom.

"I might have forgotten. But you did mention that you were scared your cabinet was going to fall off the wall and send all your stuff into the toilet, didn't you? So I had the day free, and I thought I'd come over and put up a new one."

Everything Claude is saying is technically true. Sylvain _had_ been worried about the state of that cabinet, not to mention the wall behind it, but he hardly remembers mentioning it to Claude. Moreover, it doesn't quite explain why Claude of all people would take time out of his day to fix it. It's true that they had fun together, but they only hovered close to the realm of friends, not to mention Claude maintained one of the most hectic schedules he'd ever witnessed.

Yet here he is, as though nothing is remotely amiss.

"So," Claude continues, when Sylvain doesn't immediately respond. "You can either help me, or you can just stand around and admire me the entire time, but I will be expecting a reward."

That's talk Sylvain is more familiar with, bringing him past the strangeness of Claude breaking into his apartment to fix his bathroom cabinet of all things so that he can meet his cheeky smile with one of his own.

"Trust me, you're getting a reward either way," he offers with a wink, moving past Claude into the bathroom to see how much he'd done so far.

It's a ridiculous squeeze for them to have any hope of getting work done with the both of them in such a small space, but feeling the playful curl of Claude's toes against his own, and the way their hips bump together, harmless and warm, he can't find any reason to complain.  
  
  


Claude had met Sylvain at the housewarming of a mutual friend approximately four months before he decided to escalate things by helping himself into Sylvain's house to replace the broken cabinet he'd complained about in passing. They'd existed in the same vicinity of one another for a while before that by virtue of attending the same university and sharing adjacent social circles, but the party was the first time that he'd really been able to put a face to a name to a personality.

They'd exchanged numbers, and then a few texts, and that, apparently, was all it took for Sylvain to invite Claude over for the night, his message leaving no ambiguity for what purpose the invitation was. The offer was surprising, but Sylvain was cute, and Claude was single, so he saw no reason not to give it a shot.

And so they began hooking up on the regular.

It wasn't the most meaningful relationship, consisting largely of text messages, knocking on doors, and getting undressed, but Claude wasn't lonely, and he wasn't desperate for love. What he _was_ , was curious.

Him and Sylvain frankly had fantastic sexual chemistry, so how would they mix outside the bedroom?  
  
  


As content as Claude is with the feeling of Sylvain's lips against his, the plush softness and the heat of his tongue, he still breaks the kiss to ask, "Do you want to get dinner after this?"

It's not quite enough to distract Sylvain, who uses the break as an opportunity to trace his mouth along Claude's jaw, eyes dipping closed as he channels all his focus into sucking a mark into the sensitive skin of Claude's throat, drawing a gasp and offering little more than an absent-minded, "hm?" He'd dedicate his next action to pulling Claude neatly into his lap if not for the armrest between them.

An armrest because, of course, they're currently in a movie theatre.

They're seated close to the back so that they can safely make out without too many dirty looks, and beyond that, it's an evening show of some R-rated horror film, so the chance of them startling any children is low. (They're horny, not heathens.) Sylvain had hardly waited for the lights to dim when the trailers started for his arm to draw around Claude's shoulders, pulling him in for a kiss that Claude was only too happy to receive.

It's stupid and juvenile to spend their evening making out in a movie theatre like a couple of teenagers when they both have their own apartments for much louder and much less discreet activities, but something about just how ridiculous it is makes it all the more worthwhile, and he assumes that they'll both be perfectly happy to spend the next hour and a half kissing each other's lips red.

At least until the move starts in earnest and Claude is pulling away, gently urging Sylvain back to sit properly in his seat as he repeats himself. "So, dinner. Are you down?" He waits patiently as, once again, Sylvain catches up to the fact that they could be doing something that doesn't involve sex.

Luckily, Sylvain is only ever quick to adjust, not caught as off guard with this proposal as he had been previously, smiling quietly in amusement and shaking his head.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, because he sees no reason not to, and quickly returns his attention back to the task at hand, guiding Claude back toward himself to pick back up where they left off.

Except that Claude had apparently put a pin in their activities not just to get an answer to his question, but to actually watch the movie, because he doesn't miss a beat when he dodges Sylvain's mouth, and this time, Sylvain can't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Seriously?"

"I want to watch," he replies, returning Sylvain's hands to him with a mischievous smile that Sylvain, in this moment, finds both charming and maddening. "I've heard good things about it."

To which Sylvain doesn't even bother hiding his snort of disbelief, but still, he relents and resigns himself to watching a bunch of college students spend the night in a house they have no business spending the night in.

It's about thirty minutes into the movie that Sylvain feels a hand carefully undoing the button on his jeans before slipping under the waistband, bringing a small, disbelieving smile to his lips. When his cock is eased free from his boxers, he closes his eyes and hopes that the shrill screams of college students being murdered in the background of the stellar handjob he's receiving doesn't awaken anything in him.  
  
  


By now, Sylvain has half a mind to suspect that Claude is up to something. It's an idea that floats in an out of his head as he tours a new exhibit on infectious disease that Claude had invited him to. (He'd said the person he had intended to go with bailed, and even though Sylvain doubted that Claude would have any issues reading up on the history of malaria on his own, he saw no reason to decline the offer.) But the thought disappears as quickly as it comes, and by the time that Sylvain sees Claude next, he's completely forgotten to chase that little theory.

Though that may, in part, be due to the fact that he currently doesn't have the mental capacity to think beyond the pounding of his head, and the burning of his nose and throat.

"Oh, wow."

It's not often that Claude is caught off-guard, and even in his flu-induced haze, Sylvain takes a moment to appreciate the image of him standing wide eyed in his doorway.

"I have the flu."

Somewhere along the way, Sylvain must have come to accept the new norm between them, because he doesn't automatically question Claude's presence or assume that he'll leave now that it's apparent Sylvain is unavailable for whatever scheme he has planned for the day. He simply steps aside to let him in, shuffling back to his couch to burrow back into his nest of blankets, where hopefully death will take him.

And though this isn't quite as Claude had planned for his day to go, he still politely closes the door behind him and takes off his shoes before following Sylvain inside, frowning sympathetically at the sight of him shivering on his couch.

"Lucky for you, I have my shot," he says, crouching down so that he can press his knuckles to Sylvain's forehand and throat. He's still chilly from the outside, and it must feel good against his heated skin because he leans into the touch unconsciously, which brings a small smile to Claude's face. It might be cruel of him to think, but seeing Sylvain like this is rather adorable.

"Has anyone been by?" he asks, looking around and seeing only a trash bin filled with tissues, and an empty glass of water on the nearby coffee table.

"Ingrid came over yesterday to check in and pick up Cherry." Which explains why there's no uncoordinated ball of fur nipping at his heels. "Mercedes dropped off some stuff this morning."

Even for someone with the flu, Sylvain sounds remarkably miserable, almost monotone in his answers as he pulls his blanket further up to his chin, looking so thoroughly exhausted that Claude actually feels bad for even asking how he's doing and forcing him to answer.

A quick glance toward the kitchen where Claude can see the supplies that Mercedes likely brought still sitting in their bag suggests that some of that fatigue might be because he hasn't actually brought himself to eat anything all day.

He's… remarkably not great at taking care of himself.

"Okay, let's see what she brought then, shall we?"

He takes the empty glass to get Sylvain some fresh water while he's in the kitchen to peer at the kit. As expected, the modest package is packed full of medicine to help with the various symptoms Sylvain must be suffering from, along with a hearty looking soup that Claude wastes no time in pouring into a bowl and warming up. He's never been much of a caretaker, nor is he known for coddling others, but hearing the weak coughing that's coming from the couch, there's just no way that he can leave and let Sylvain stew in his own misery.

So he settles in for the long haul, badgering Sylvain to shift so that he can take a seat on the couch as well, and dutifully not saying anything as Sylvain quickly settles his head on his lap as soon as Claude's seated.

He even lets him puppy-dog eye his way into getting Claude to feed him spoonfuls of soup, despite being fully aware that Sylvain is capable of feeding himself.

"You know what might help me get better faster?" Sylvain asks once they're almost done with the soup, his spirits lifting at a rapid pace with some company, and some food in his belly.

Claude has a feeling he already knows what comes next, but he takes the bait anyway. "What?"

"A blowjob," he replies all to happily, smirking up at Claude's completely unimpressed expression.

As he looks down at that ridiculously smug smirk, and fails to find it, and the suggestion, as anything but endearing, Claude knows that whatever he's been inflicted with is serious.

But thankfully he's not too far gone as to take Sylvain's suggestion seriously without forcing him to take a shower first.  
  
  


Sylvain and Claude live roughly 30 minutes from each other, and work in different districts in the city. The fact that they've been able to see each other so often in the past few weeks is no accident, even if it's felt like the most natural thing in the world. But eventually, responsibilities and obligations pile up, and not even Claude's clever planning can carve out time where they can coordinate their schedules.

A week passes, then another. Plans for the weekend are made and fall apart in equal time. Three weeks pass.

It should be nothing; hectic schedules make the time go by in the blink of an eye but Claude feels an unfamiliar ache in between the text messages he shares with Sylvain. Sometimes he even considers calling him, as if late night phone calls with crushes haven't been out of style for a decade.

It's late into one unplanned evening when they finally—thankfully—find time together, and Claude takes to Sylvain as though he'd been dying without him, unable to even feel self-conscious over his desperation when Sylvain is meeting him with the same urgency, clothes falling to the floor in the entryway of Claude's apartment.

"Please tell me you don't have anything planned for tonight that doesn't involve the bed," Sylvain asks against his lips, even though he'd been the one to propose the impromptu visit only an hour ago. Claude's almost touched that he has enough faith to believe that Claude could concoct a scheme on such short notice.

"Maybe I do." His voice is a faint murmur, hands working diligently to get Sylvain's pants undone and off while his mouth is preoccupied with talking. He's distracted by how badly he needs Sylvain's skin against his own, but not enough that he misses the borderline irritated look he gets in response to his answer, and he only smirks in return, tone dropping into something more suggestive. "I can think of plenty of plans that involve the couch, the shower, maybe even the kitchen counter…"

He's met with a laugh that he cherishes the entire way to his bedroom, falling onto his bed; Sylvain now free of all his clothes and Claude following in rapid suit, graceless as he throws off his shirt so that he can press Sylvain against the mattress, skin on skin. Distance may have made his heart grow fonder, but the way he bites Sylvain's throat is all heat, all lust.

"Yeah," Sylvain murmurs against the air, flushed and soft with pleasure in a way that Claude would have no doubt appreciated if he weren't so busy sucking marks into the skin over his collarbones. He only pauses to groan when Sylvain's hand sneaks between their bodies to fist both of their cocks, growing steadily slick in anticipation. "I missed you too."

Claude gasps as he arches into his hand, helpless and desperate, forearms now on either side of Sylvain as he struggles to keep grounded against the rough slide over sensitive skin. They've only just begun but he never claimed that Sylvain isn't good at what he does. He thinks about just how true Sylvain's statement is. How Claude _had_ missed him, and how he'd wanted him both inside his bed and out.

The sheer magnitude of his own desire sends another tremor through him, hips bucking on instinct, and eyes slow to open when he feels fingers carding through his hair. Sylvain is smiling beneath him, mouth open as his breaths come heavy. In the corner of his eye Claude can see his arm working as he strokes over them both, muscles tense and shifting and the sight of it is so subtle in the obscene story it tells that it draws another needy sound out of him.

If Sylvain finds his lack of stamina amusing, he doesn't say anything. Not that he would have any right when he's doing his level best to goad Claude on, pulling him apart with his words as much as his hands: a steady stream of praise; sighs about how long he's wanted this; how he'd thought about Claude while touching himself in the past weeks; how he'd pushed his fingers into himself when he couldn't bear it, but wasn't _enough_.

That last image is enough to tip Claude over the edge, fingers digging roughly in the bedsheets as he spends over Sylvain's belly, shuddering and stifling a quiet noise against the skin of Sylvain's shoulder when he feels him follow shortly after. Neither of them say anything to break the chorus of soft pants, too distracted by the want still humming in the air.

Claude counts the seconds in his head in the breathless moments that follow, astonished by the record time it had taken them both to finish, and finding himself no more willing to relinquish his current position now that he had. He shifts his weight so that its no longer on his knees, and presses more firmly down against Sylvain, paying no mind as the mess they've made smears over his skin.

Sylvain does nothing to complain about the weight, his hands coming up to trace idle patterns over Claude's back—lazy, intimate, _waiting_ , and Claude answers him in kind, one hand cradling his jaw so that he draw him into a lazy kiss.

They keep like that, pressed close and kissing breathlessly until arousal sparks hot and heady again. Claude rearranges them once more; kneeling between Sylvain's thighs with one leg raised so that he can kiss the inside of his knee as he sweetly plies Sylvain open with slicked fingers, watching like a man possessed the way Sylvain uses all the power in his body to fuck himself down on Claude's fingers.

"I take it you're ready for round two then?" He grins as he watches Sylvain writhe against the sheets, the picture of revenge if not for the gentle way he removes his fingers, stealing another kiss as a distraction while he rips open a condom for himself—steady, careful and calculated.

Which is why he's wholly unprepared when Sylvain grips his hip to angle him exactly where he wants him between his legs with one hand, the other pulling his jaw so that he's look Sylvain in eye when he says, "I can't wait for the day when you fuck me raw," and steadily destroys every shred of Claude's control in a single breath.

It's later, when they've thoroughly made up for every moment missed in the past three weeks, that Claude turns those words over and around in his head, wondering if Sylvain had only said it in the heat of the moment or if he meant it. He thinks about it and thinks about it until Sylvain's pulling him out of bed so that they can both shower, and all they do is kiss and wash each other's hair while laughing.

It's kind of wonderful.  
  
  


When Claude finds himself at Sylvain's apartment next, he's not alone.

He crouches down when he sees Cherry trotting in his direction, rubbing vigorously over her face and back, smiling when she immediately falls to the ground and shows her belly. "Hey, Cherry."

"Claude!" Apparently Hilda had already settled herself in. "Get over here!"

Claude looks over to see Hilda squeezed onto the couch with Dorothea, Ingrid and Sylvain. They're settled in for a lacrosse match—the uniting factor between the girls, who played together in university—which Ingrid and Dorothea usually host as their place, but their TV is currently out of commission after a drunken accident of "passion". (Or so Sylvain had relayed to him with a leer when he'd invited him over.)

With the full house, there's absolutely no room on the couch left for Claude, and Sylvain's modest apartment doesn't allow for any other seating in the living area. That does not mean however, that Claude has any intention of sitting through a three hour long match on the cold floor, and he stands purposefully at the edge of the couch to survey the situation. He doesn't pose the question verbally, but the look he gives Hilda says enough.

Though expecting sympathy from Hilda is always a fool's endeavour.

"You snooze you lose, big man." She shrugs, and makes absolutely no effort to encourage a group shimmying effort in order to make room for him.

Ingrid and Dorothea offer him similar levels of compassion (that is, none), and Sylvain, ever in character, grins and pats his thighs.

"You're always welcome on my lap, sweet stuff." He follows up the offer with a wink.

Luckily for him, Claude has no issue with taking him up on the offer.

"Thanks."

It's immensely satisfying to see that cheeky expression fade into surprise when Claude plants his butt on Sylvain's thigh without the slightest hesitation, his legs tossed over the armrest and one arm winding around Sylvain's shoulder for balance. It's not the easiest position for looking at the screen, but unless he wants to risk putting his feet on Ingrid's lap, and subsequently lose them, it'll have to do.

"... Okay." Claude can practically hear the confused look that Ingrid must be looking at them with, and he supposes that he should consider himself lucky that he has his back to Dorothea and Hilda to spare himself the daggers of interest they must be shooting in his direction.

What he does have a perfect view of, is Sylvain's face, taking in the way he seems to be torn between uncertainty and amusement, eventually whispering a quiet, "okay" to himself.

Okay.

Slowly, the tension eases out of Claude, and he rests his head against his shoulder.

If anyone else has anything to say regarding his choice of seating for the evening, they keep it to themselves, and soon enough the opening announcements of the match resound through the apartment.

Quietly enough that no one should be able to hear him, Claude shifts to speak into Sylvain's ear. "I can move if you want." It wouldn't take any effort for him to grab one of the chairs from the dining table.

His answer comes in the form of one of Sylvain's arms snaking around his waist, holding him more snugly against his chest. "It's fine."

And so he stays, soaking in the warmth of Sylvain's chest and his arms around him.

As expected, he doesn't see much of the match, craning his head to catch a few of the opening remarks before he decides that it's not worth it. He finds that he doesn't miss it when he has his face tucked against Sylvain's neck, smiling whenever he feels a laugh rumble in his chest.

He manages to doze in and out of sleep even with Ingrid and Hilda's vigorous yelling, not surrendering his seat for the entire duration of the match, and feigning sleep whenever the action winds down to a break and Hilda whines his name a couple of times. He doubts that she buys his little act, but he's not in the mood to answer any questions or face her smug smiles.

It's a comfort that Sylvain doesn't betray him though Claude has no doubt he can tell that he's awake, content to let him stay on his lap even as the other jostle about, bathroom breaks and trips to the kitchen to refresh their drinks. Throughout it all Sylvain seems content to hold him, and every now and then Claude can feel his cheek resting against the top of his head.

It's not until the girls are finally are getting off the couch and filtering out that Claude finally moves again, like a ragdoll suddenly easing into animation as he stretches his arms over his head as he falls back on the newly vacated cushions, while Sylvain also takes the opportunity to stretch his stiff limbs. He's growing steadily aware that he's only making it look like he'd ignored everyone else the entire night while waiting for them to leave—which had genuinely _not_ been his intention—but it feels like his spontaneity has made things spiral so soundly out of his control that he's not sure it's even worth trying to salvage things.

The way that Sylvain is smiling down at him, without an ounce of a complaint despite the fact that Claude's weight must've left his legs numb, makes it remarkably difficult to stress.

"Good morning."

Before Sylvain can reply, Hilda, still pulling on her coat, chimes in, " _Good morning_ , sleepy beauty. Looks like you're up just in time for the party."

From his new position, Claude can see her upside down expression of mischief loud and clear. Though he doesn't need to see her to hear the suggestion hanging unsubtly in her words. "I sure am," he answers back, all at once warm and dismissive as he smiles at her. "I'll tell you all about it in the morning."

If he'd been looking in the other direction, he might've seen the way that Sylvain's eyebrows jumped at that, his grin never wavering and a steady rosiness spreading over his cheeks—from delight, not embarrassment. Hilda, on the other hand, has a clear view of the dopey smile, and even if she's burning at the chance to grill both idiots with questions about _what_ exactly is going on, she's not sure if she wants to sit through the shy, stammering stage of figuring out a relationship.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Claude." She squints suspiciously in his direction for a moment before relenting, her ponytail flipping behind her as she turns to leave. "Have fun and be safe. _Bye_ Sylvain!"

(Dorothea and Ingrid are waiting for her outside, engrossed in a discussion about the match that Ingrid solidly refuses to surrender, though she pauses for a moment when Hilda steps out. Her gaze wanders to the door and back, brows furrowed.

"What's going on with them?"

Before this night, she'd had no idea that they'd even spent time together outside of Hilda's housewarming, and even if she knows Sylvain is a master of wearing a facetiously friendly façade, the quiet way he'd held Claude throughout the night spoke of something different.

"I don't know," Hilda answers honestly, shrugging. "But I guess we'll see.")

In the silence of the apartment, Claude shifts so that his back is resting on the armrest opposite Sylvain, his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands laced on his stomach.

"So Hilda seemed curious about something." Sylvain looks as at ease as he had the entire night, but now there's a hint of weariness in the corners of his eyes. An expectation for an explanation.

For the first time since he'd broken into Sylvain's apartment, Claude wonders if he should've just talked to Sylvain about the possibility of them dating instead of… whatever it is that he opted to do instead.

"Sorry." He winces slightly. "Was that too much?"

He's not sure how to explain that he hadn't really been thinking. That he'd gotten too used to their back and forths while they were alone, and he hadn't been able to transition back to something safer fast enough when they were in the company of others. Or maybe he should say that he'd assumed it would be a minor stunt to laugh at, but he'd gotten comfortable, and Sylvain hadn't pushed him away.

But Sylvain seems to get it, if the way his expression softens is any indication. He just shakes his head, and that sparks a bit of relief in Claude that he doesn't want to dwell too deeply on.

"Nah. I'm just wondering what Hilda is so curious about. And what you're going to tell her in the morning." He says this all with a knowing smile, obviously feeling no remorse over taking advantage of Claude's awkwardness.

He might have been puzzled as to why Claude was suddenly popping up around his apartment, dragging him around for activities that had nothing to do with their original arrangement, but he thinks he's starting to piece the clues together.

He _hopes_ he's starting to piece the clues together.

Claude tries to frame his thought process in the most logical way possible, but he still feels slightly insane when all he manages is, "I… may have been discreetly testing what it would be like if we dated." The quiet huff of laughter he gets in return quickly confirms his theory on how ridiculous he must sound. But at least he gets to see Sylvain's eyes go bright in return, and maybe that brings a small, helpless smile to his own lips, smoothing over the sheepish expression previously there.

" _Okay_ , and?" Sylvain tips over from his upright position, playful now that he's caught up to speed on the situation, and his torso presses flat over where Claude's legs are laying, drumming his fingers over his thigh, the other hand propping up his chin. He looks like an ever mischievous cat, and Claude can't believe how much he likes him in this moment. "What conclusion did your experiments deliver you?"

It feels obvious now that he looks back at all of the moments in the past few weeks that had gotten him to scratch his head—obvious if not for the fact that it's actually _completely ridiculous_ to try and date someone without clueing them in on the fact, so Sylvain allows himself some slack for not catching on earlier. He even considers whether or not he should be upset, and he certainly can think of some choice punishments to dole out, but for now he holds his breath. Even if Claude looks like he's swallowed a sour lemon at being made to lay bare his machinations, Sylvain can't help but want to know.

Because even for Sylvain and his string of shallow relationships that hadn't gotten any shorter after he finished school and transformed into a proper adult, being with Claude is easy. Struggling to put up that bathroom cabinet with Cherry biting at their heels had been easy, so had suffering through that awful horror flick and laughing about it over dinner, and even the flu had been marginally more bearable with Claude's eccentric bedside manner to distract him.

Keeping his arms around him, snug and relaxed, in front of all their friends had been easy, and maybe Sylvain should voice some of this to help out Claude who is, despite his silver tongue, visibly struggling to vocalize a reply, but he doesn't. He's not sure if he'll ever get the chance to see him so plainly out of his element, so he might as well enjoy the view while he can.

At the very least, It doesn't take Claude _too_ long to pick up on the fact that Sylvain might be having fun at his expense, suddenly deflating from where he'd been working up the words in his head when he catches his gaze, and the tension in his chest relaxes.

Suddenly, it's so easy to say, "I want to be with you."

And easier still when he sees Sylvain's features go soft with wonder, his earlier flush returning, even though he must've known the confession was coming. It couldn't be so impossible to believe, could it?

"Wow, okay." Slowly, a smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It was incredibly hard," Claude deadpans, trying not to sound too impatient. "So?"

"So," Sylvain chirps back, still unrepentant though Claude is less charmed by it this time.

Considering that Claude had spent the better part of the past few _weeks_ running this possibility through his mind, analyzing it and picking it apart, he doesn't really have a leg to stand on when it comes to wheedling a response out of Sylvain.

Not that it stops him from letting out a frustrated sigh, leaning forward so that he can take Sylvain's face in his hands and squish his cheeks into something adorable. "So what about you? And your feelings toward me?"

The answer for Sylvain, as it ultimately had been for Claude, is simple. He returns the favour and settles his own hands on Claude's face, gripping him soundly.

"Claude," the tone of his voice is warm, beautiful, "I knew from the moment you broke in my apartment that there was no resisting you."

There's no way to know if Sylvain is being genuine or if he's just teasing him when Claude's too focused on the relief that breaks over him. Chest tight as the intimacy they've shared so many times now takes on a new flavour, he laughs, the sound ringing through the apartment as he brings Sylvain's face closer to his own. "Still hung up on that, huh? Maybe if you kiss me, I'll reveal how I got in."

Sylvain doesn't need the incentive, but he's still all too happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> Claude just used Felix's key to get in. He actually wanted to enact the plan a month earlier, but that's how long it took to coax Felix into letting him borrow the key. Even if he behaves like he would sell Sylvain's soul to the devil for 1 corn chip, Felix doesn't actually want random people breaking into his apartment c:


End file.
